


Nobody

by hazeltea (madlovescience)



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:39:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlovescience/pseuds/hazeltea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dear Mr. Finnemore, </p>
<p>
  <a href="http://s590.beta.photobucket.com/user/madlovescience/media/sorry_zps39c17c1e.jpg.html"></a>
  <img/></p>
<p> Sincerely, </p>
<p> hazeltea</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It began with the ‘flu. This, of course, being a cute little name for a violent illness that caused Martin to lose control of every orifice in his body, feel chills while simultaneously sweating, and to become groggy and utterly exhausted;  though not quite exhausted enough to sleep through the constant dull pain behind his eyes. A pleading phone call to Carolyn was effort wasted, surely he could fly with a little case of the sniffles?  And so, despite his nagging doubts, Martin convinced himself that he could; provided he took some daytime cold medicine.  

 It was around 20,000 feet that the fluid behind his inner ear set his head spinning.

 “Right.” Douglas said, with a sharp intake of breath. “I’m taking over. You aren’t fit to fly.”

 Martin slumped back in his seat, but attempted a half hearted protest, out of habit. “I’m fine.”

 “For a kamikaze pilot, yes, you would have made the Emperor proud.”

 Things got a bit hazy from that point on.

\--

Martin regained proper awareness sometime later. He was home, well, in his attic. Despite his decision to think of the small room as a temporary stepping stone on the way to greatness, he often thought of it as ‘home’, as one is wont to do with the place they keep their possessions, no matter how unsatisfactory. He was wearing a jumper over his pajamas, a jumper that didn’t belong to him. It was too large and too nice to be one of his, some soft, posh fiber blended with wool in a cheerful green , with white snowflakes at the collar and wrists.  He fought back another chill, and burrowed deeper into the blankets.  He could hear someone bustling about the small room, whistling discordantly.  “Arthur?” he hazarded.  His voice was a small croak. It hurt to talk.

 “Right-o, Skip.”  Arthur sunk to his knees at the edge of the mattress.  “Drink this.” He pushed a cup under Martin’s nose. He would have protested if it weren’t so much effort. Wincing in anticipation, Martin sipped, and was startled to find that the cup contained warm, edible chicken soup.  Delicious, even; to his limited sense of taste.  “You… made this?” he managed.

 “Well, er, no.” Arthur admitted. “I can’t cook much on a hotplate. I’m used to the microwave, you know. I bought it and heated it up a bit. “

Martin heaved a sigh of relief and sipped at the soup. His eyes traveled across the room and noted the changes since that morning: gone were the pile of used tissues and the empty cold tablet packets.  A pile of clean laundry was neatly folded on his trunk, and even the sheets had been changed. “Um. Arthur. You didn’t have to do… all of this.” A large part of him felt embarrassed that someone else had touched his snotty tissues and washed his pants. The further realization that he hadn’t left G-ERTI in his pajamas, and what the current state of his pajama-clad body implied made him blush furiously.

 “It’s no bother.” Arthur grinned. “I do all of the washing up and things like that at home. Mum says I’m good at it, better than she is, even, so she lets me do everything.” He beamed proudly. “You aren’t feeling well enough to do it yourself, are you, Skip?”

 Martin shook his groggy head.

“I’ve brought some medicine for you. It’ll help you sleep. I know that because my dad used to drink bottles of it, well. He probably still does, but I don’t know because I’m not there. Anyway, drink it really, really fast, because it’s nasty.”

“You’re supposed to tell me it’s not that bad.” Martin grumbled.

“But if I tell you that it tastes like rotten meat and eggs and fuzzy cheese, you’ll be ready for something _really_ awful, but then when it goes down tasting of burnt tires instead, you’ll think it’s not so bad after all.”

“Don’t mention food.” Martin’s stomach churned painfully as Arthur tipped the bottle to his lips. He swallowed, feeling a burning sensation in his throat followed by a peculiar taste of licorice and something else, a medicinal, tinny taste. He reached for his mug of broth to wash the worst of it out of his mouth.

 It wasn’t long before he dozed, as Arthur had promised. He could still hear Arthur chatting away, humming off tune in the background. He began to lose track of time, measuring it only in the doses of medicine and soup that Arthur occasionally doled out, and in trips up and down the rickety attic stairs to the ‘loo, supported by Arthur’s arms.

He was eventually able to fall into a deep sleep. He dreamed that he was flying.

\--

Martin opened his eyes and stretched. To his amazement, he felt considerably better, and ravenously hungry. He sat up with a groan, and made his way from his mattress to his hotplate and the two plastic milk crates that served as his pantry; hoping he’d have something to tide him over until he was feeling more like himself. He found the previously bare crates stocked with teabags and bread, tins of peaches and oranges, and cans of soup. Gratefully, he tipped a bottle of water into the pan on his hotplate for tea, and ate several pieces of the bread and a can of peaches before deciding that he needed a shower. He peeled off his clothing and wrapped his dressing gown snugly around himself before carefully folding the jumper and setting it aside. He reasoned that he would give it back once he’d washed it.


	2. Chapter 2

The flight to Chicago was brilliant, in Arthur’s opinion. It was a cargo flight, which meant that the rest of the crew was in a cheerful mood, engaging in a spirited word game where they worked their way through the alphabet, each letter describing a part of G-ERTI that needed repair. Mum hadn’t been too keen on playing ‘The CEO’s Plane’, but even she had begun to grin and participate by the time they got to ‘D’, suggesting that Douglas needed his moral compass adjusted. This prompted a discussion about whether or not pilots ought to be counted as a component of the plane, which was rather entertaining, until Douglas suggested that E should be for edible food, which was lacking; and that was when Arthur remembered that the timer wasn’t working on the microwave. The pot pies had probably been cooking for longer than they ought to.  The thing that was _really_ brilliant was that he was able to salvage the pies in time, and Martin ate the whole of his dinner.  This had always been important, of course, but had become increasingly important to Arthur, who wasn’t convinced that the pilot was entirely well yet.

 Back in Fitton, the crew began to disperse.  Arthur dawdled, hoping to catch a last glimpse of Martin. He wanted to talk to him, although he wasn’t sure about what he wanted to say, exactly.  

“Arthur.” Martin approached him, saving him the trouble. “Listen. I um. I wanted to thank you for looking after me last week.  I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”  Martin offered him a large chocolate bar. The exchange of chocolate was awkward. Martin found himself looking downward, and Arthur was reluctant to take it from his hands.  

“You don’t have to thank me, Skip, I like helping you. You’re my friend, and you were ill…” Arthur began.

“Please take it.” Martin insisted, shuffling his feet.

Arthur accepted it, and admired the fancy gold wrapping. It would almost be a shame to eat it. “Would you like some of my chocolate?” he offered.

Martin shook his head. “No, no, it’s yours. To thank you.”

“Arthur, _do_ hurry up!” Carolyn’s exasperated voice called from the cabin.

“Coming, Mum!”  Arthur flashed a smile at him. “Mum’s waiting for me, Skip.”

Martin smirked. “I know. Good night, Arthur.”

“Good night, Skip!” Arthur tucked the bar into his jacket and waited until he was home to eat it.

He saved the wrapper.

\--

  Martin had tacked a towel over the attic’s circular window to act as a curtain as well as a draft guard, but the wind was picking up, and causing a draft anyway. He sighed, and after a moment’s hesitation, pulled Arthur’s jumper over his pajamas. He hadn’t washed it yet, so he might as well. A frown formed at the side of his mouth. Was it a little weird to wear a mate’s jumper to bed? _Yes_ , his mind supplied, _freakishly weird_. He pondered it for another moment before deciding that  it was cold, and no one would know anyway because he lived alone, as it were.  He crawled under his quilt, and gazed up at the small model airplanes he’d hung from the rafters.  No one came up into the attic, after all, and the jumper was warm and smelled a bit like Arthur.  He sat up, startled. _Freakish_ , his mind repeated.  He raised the sleeve to his nose and sniffed. It did smell a bit like what he associated with Arthur- some strongly scented fabric softener over it- and a bit like what his own sheets smelled like. His scent and Arthur’s together.   _Don’t think about it._ The less he tried to think about it, however, the more he did.

It was nice when Arthur had been there. The attic hadn’t seemed so… depressing.  Arthur was dim, and his cheerfulness could get on one’s nerves, but at the same time, the longer he knew Arthur the less annoying that seemed. Martin sighed. He was lonely, he knew, and he was too busy to have friendships; the few he’d cultivated in school had gone separate ways years ago. Arthur was his friend, and he’d enjoyed his company, it was as simple as that- not freakish. Not at all.  They worked together, so they had things in common. They could talk about the day. They could talk about airplanes. Arthur was the only person who never got tired of that, even Douglas had his limits. Martin yawned, and rolled onto his side. It was perfectly normal, he concluded. It was.  He’d give the jumper back once he’d washed it, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

 Arthur knew how Martin took his coffee and his tea without asking. He also knew instinctively when Martin would like to have them, and which he would prefer to have. Martin had never noticed this before, but now he found it incredible that he hadn’t. In comparison, Douglas’ opinion of coffee in the workplace was simple- it just had to be there. He’d take a cup, black, whenever it was offered, and let it sit half done until the next cup appeared.  Martin was much fussier.

 “Here you go, Skip. I’ve made it double strong with twice as much cream and sugar.” Arthur informed him, setting his cup down alongside Douglas’ simpler concoction.

 “That’s perfect, thank you.” Martin sighed. “I really needed this.”

 Arthur nodded. “I know. You should tell me when you have a big job, you know, I’d help.”

 Martin opened his eyes and frowned. “How did you know I had one?”

 “Oh, just that you look tired, and stiff.” Arthur shrugged.

 Douglas watched him retreat back to the galley before raising an eyebrow at Martin. “Why, he’s a regular Sherlock Holmes now. What _is_ this world coming to?”

 “Do I really look that bad today?” Martin asked, stretching his arms over his head before rubbing his face thoughtfully.

“ No worse than usual.” Douglas confirmed.

 “Thanks, I think.” Martin’s mind wandered. How odd that someone like Arthur would notice. How odd that anyone might care.

\--

 To say that Arthur Shappey liked people was an understatement. He liked perfectly dreadful people as much as nice people, as he reasoned that perhaps no one had ever tried to be nice to them.  To say that he never learned his lesson was a further understatement.  Once he’d found a chink in someone’s armor, he’d ply them with kindness until they snapped and became more dreadful than before.

 This was what had happened with every girlfriend he’d ever had. He was never short of them, on account of being so friendly, but inevitably it would be only weeks before they’d tell him that really, he was just _too much_ , and that he really was a nice boy but they had to focus on their dying uncle or their move to Manchester or something equally as important.  He never found out what he was too much of, which puzzled and troubled him at times.

 Especially since he didn’t want to be _too much_ around Martin.

 Arthur had never fancied a man before, but when he first met Martin Crieff, his first thought was that the other man was beautiful as well as brilliant. He was a good bit shorter than Arthur was, which was all right, really, since it gave him a better view of his vivid ginger curls, which were forever trying to escape the neat combing Martin gave them. His eyes always seemed to be changing colors, but were a bright green while in uniform, set off by his pale, freckled skin.  He was what one might call ‘dainty’, but girls were dainty, not boys, were they? Arthur wasn’t sure, but he was charmed; and fighting the urge to kiss the freckle on the tip of his nose.

 It only got worse as he got to know him. Martin _was_ brilliant, and kind, and determined, and wonderful. But Arthur knew enough to stay away.  Martin wouldn’t see anything in him, anyway. His father would hunt him down and skin him if he found out, and would stop sending him the money that he secretly used to help out Mum. Mum would be angry with Martin, probably, and then Martin would worry about losing his job, even though Mum would never let him go. It would just be too much trouble, yes, again, _Too Much_.

And yet…

 Since he was nineteen, he had bought a lottery ticket once a week, silently affirming that if he won, he’d pay off MJN’s debts. Lately, he’d found a second thought tacked on: _… and take care of Martin, forever._

Dangerous! He mustn’t think that, he mustn’t. It would cause too many problems. It would be _Too Much._

And yet…

  The next time he held a lottery ticket in his hand, his resolve wavered.  _If I win, I will pay off all of MJN’s debts, and buy proper insurance for G-ERTI, and ask Skip to marry me-_

His eyes flew open. _NO!_ He couldn’t even _think_ it. It was _Too Much._


	4. Chapter 4

  It took Martin only a day to realize that something was off, and a full week to realize exactly what it was. It had been too quiet, somehow. There had been word games with Douglas, of course; loud threats from Carolyn on occasion, and pleasant chatter from Arthur. Only… there wasn’t quite enough of Arthur’s voice, and though he remained cheerful, he often fell silent for long periods of time. Once, he had met Arthur’s eyes, and the other man had looked away quickly, pretending it hadn’t happened. It _had_ happened, though, and the expression that had flickered behind those eyes was a troubling mixture of panic and sadness.  

  Arthur was a good friend to him, in truth, the only one he wouldn’t hesitate to call for help, the only one who freely gave without being asked. If there were something troubling him, it would only be right of Martin to help him, as well. Try, even if he failed. To Martin’s knowledge, only one person was capable of driving Arthur to extremes of fright and misery, and truthfully, there was nothing he could do to sheild him from Gordon Shappey’s temper and general attitude of parental neglect. He could try, though, to listen to him and reassure him, if nothing else.

  Martin dawdled as Douglas left, leaving him alone with Arthur. He could hear him tidying the galley, humming discordantly. “Arthur?” he stepped into the galley, as Arthur looked up from his task, which seemed to be the organization of snack packets by size and color.

 “Everything all right, Skip?” His voice remained bright, although his eyes looked tired.

 “Well, I was, er. I was about to ask the same of you, actually. It’s just that I’ve noticed that you seem a bit quiet lately, and I was wondering if you wanted… needed, that is, to talk. It doesn’t have to be here, you know, we could…” Martin made a vague gesture with his hands, and slowly, Arthur shook his head.

 “It’s good of you, Skip, but I’m all right, really I am.”  Arthur smiled that false, bright way that Martin had leared to recognize over the past week.

 “Please have coffee with me.” Martin blurted.

  Arthur’s eyes widened momentarilly. “With you?”

“Yes.”  Martin looked puzzled. “With me. Arthur, what’s gotten into you?”

Arthur sighed, and began to fill the coffee pot. “It’s just that, well. I really like someone right now, well, for awhile, and they aren’t interested. I thought about it a bit, and I realized it was probably just as well, because I can’t really give them anything, you know, other than my time. I started to think about what Mr. Birling said, you know, about me living with Mum, and that I’ve got a useless job, a job I wouldn’t have gotten if it wasn’t Mum’s plane anyway.”

 Martin felt his heart sink. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one who wouldn’t have a job if not for your mum. At least she pays you.”

At this, Arthur cracked a small grin. “She can’t afford to pay me, either, Skip. My dad sends me money. I wouldn’t take it, but I’m useless at any other job, and it helps out Mum a bit, as well. I do the shopping and things like that so that she doesn’t have to, you know, take the money directly from me, because then she’d have to think about the fact that it came from _him_ , and she’d rather starve in the street,she’s said so,  but it’s okay if _I_ use the money because he’s my dad, I guess.” Arthur shrugged, looking down into his mug.

“Ah.” Martin nodded. It was an arrangement that seemed both obvious and strange at once. “Arthur, you know what Mr. Birling’s like. You shouldn’t take it to heart. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” The words were hollow, the sort of reassurance offered to a friend that weren’t quite true… although, Martin mused, maybe not. Arthur might not be considered a great catch by just about everyone, but he _cared_ , more than most people did. Whoever she was would be loved, if not smothered. On some level, Martin knew this could grow to be annoying, but he couldn’t help wanting someone’s undivided affection after so long without any.

  “I want to protect them.” Arthur continued, slowly, echoing Martin’s thoughts. “Only I don’t have a lot of money, and you do need that to get married, don’t you?”

 “Married?” Martin raised his gaze. “Arthur, you can’t be serious. Your girlfriend probably won’t fancy living with your mum, for a start. Also, most women don’t want to be ‘protected’, as you say. They can earn their own money. Just think about how your mum feels about that.”

 “What if they haven’t much of their own?” Arthur asked, stirring his spoon aimlessly in the light, sweet drink.

 “I’m afraid it would come across as a bit sexist.” Martin frowned.

“Well, what if it were a man?” Arthur ventured.

“What?”

 “What if,” Arthur continued, “if it were a man, and he hadn’t much, but he was wonderful, I mean, absolutely brilliant, and I really wanted to help because I love him so much.” His voice was subdued, and he didn’t dare look up, as he couldn’t lie to save his life. He’d already said too much.

 “I think it depends on the person.” Martin bit his lip, and looked away. “I wouldn’t like… to be indebted to someone I didn’t trust, for example, or someone who’d use it against me.”

 “I wouldn’t do that.” Arthur protested.

 “I know that _you_ wouldn’t, but a lot of people would, and she, or, well, he, might be afraid that you might. Once they got to know you, they’d trust you, and I think… I think they would like to be looked after. _Some_ people might, I mean. And I don’t think that you need to get married for that, you know, or have a lot of money, but a little bit always makes things easier, practically.” He was rambling, he knew. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that it would be easy to take advantage of someone as kind as you are, and I’d worry if I didn’t think that Carolyn would put them in their place before they got the chance.”

 “So,for example,  you’d protect me in a different way than I’d go about protecting you, then.”

 “Well, these things are give and take, or so I hear.” Martin sighed.

 “Martin?”

“Hmm?”

 “You’re wonderful, and I want to protect you.” Martin startled, looking up into his friend’s eyes, which were darkened with emotion.

 “You don’t have to-“ he began. Arthur pitied him. Arthur, of all people! Martin felt miserably pathetic at the realization. Arthur, who saw everything in life as a bonus prize, looked at him as someone who had failed, who needed help. The horrible thing about it was that it was absolutely true.

 “Would you let me-?” when Martin didn’t reply, Arthur bent to kiss him, chastely at first, before becoming bolder with his tongue. Martin hadn’t kissed anyone in over eight years- almost a decade, he realized, and it had never been as nice as this, as natural or gentle. Carolyn would have his head if she knew what they were doing. He shivered at the thought, and Arthur brought his arms around him soothingly. Oh, Carolyn would murder him!

 “We can’t tell your Mum.” He managed, as they parted for air.

 “Or my dad.” Arthur agreed, quietly.


	5. Chapter 5

 Martin’s toes were cold under his blankets, as was the tip of his nose.  He burrowed it into the green jumper ( _his_ jumper, his sleep addled mind supplied) and reluctantly opened his eyes. The events of the night before flooded back into his consciousness and _oh God, Arthur. I’ve been snogging Arthur._ Not much else had happened, honestly, no fooling around, not much talking- but they had been kissing for what might have been hours, until Carolyn had called Arthur’s mobile to tell him to remember to buy some milk on the way home.  

 He was flying today. The captain, having an affair with the steward. It sounded glamorous. It may have been, for any other captain, and any other crew. A proper captain, and a steward who wasn’t Arthur.   _Arthur_ , of all people! He’d never be able to keep a secret like this, and when the truth came out- Martin shivered. It would be the end of his flying, and likely the last he’d see of Arthur, as well. How stupid had he been to have gotten himself into this mess? With a sigh, he left the relative warmth of his bed to deal with his foolish decision.

-

  “Morning, Martin!” Arthur waved.

 Martin cracked a small smile, and nodded. “Morning, Arthur. “ His stomach flipped a bit as he caught the steward’s eye. He took a few deep breaths as he made his way to the flight deck, and settled himself in. He couldn’t give anything away, not with Carolyn and Douglas around. To Venice and back. Right.  He absently greeted Douglas, and smiled with what he hoped was an ordinary smile at Carolyn. When had he ever had to worry about smiling in an ordinary way before?

“ -Martin, do you understand?” Carolyn finished.

“Um. Yes. Of course.”  Martin nodded. Douglas looked mildly surprised, and Martin fretted that he’d given away something somehow, without meaning to.

  “You’d have lost the wager anyway.” Douglas added, as he checked the flight plan.

 --

  Martin found himself keeping a nervous tally of all things Arthur as the flight progressed. Arthur brought him coffee.  Eye contact. Smile. Normal for Arthur, nothing out of the ordinary. Oh, but he had such warm, nice eyes... Arthur brought him a sandwich- the chicken salad, his favorite, and a nice _new_ one that hadn’t been squashed in the mini fridge. It had _lettuce_ on it, for God’s sake! Suspicious favoritism. Douglas didn’t seem to notice, thankfully. Arthur brushing against him as he passed to use the loo- at least Carolyn hadn’t come on this trip, or she might have noticed. Martin shook his head. It was perfectly innocent, anyway. It was.

\--

 Douglas abandoned them once they arrived in Venice to eat someplace that sounded dreadfully expensive, which wasn’t terribly surprising, and actually a bit of a relief. Martin’s stomach was growling again, and he was debating the merits of the dried up cheese tray remains versus the yogurt he was fairly sure was still in the galley when he felt Arthur’s arm slip around his waist from behind, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin.

 “It’s just me, Skip.” Arthur beamed.

 “I know that, Arthur. Theres isn’t anyone else it _could_ be, now is there? You just star-“ Martin’s words were cut off as Arthur twirled him in his arms so that they were face to face, and pulled him into a kiss. Martin’s knees almost gave out, and he slumped against the wall as he struggled to catch his breath.

 “Arthur!”

 “Sorry about that, Skip. It’s just, well, you looked so _lovely_ , and there was no one else around…”

 “We have to be _careful_ about that.” Martin scolded, although his heart wasn’t in it. In fact, he found himself murmuring the sentiment against Arthur’s lips. “Douglas could come back any minute-“

 “He won’t. He’s gone to dinner. We should too, don’t you think? Italian food is brilliant, isn’t it?”

 Martin laughed, and nodded. “Careful in public, okay?”

 “Absolutely!” Arthur pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before heading out. Martin absently touched the spot, the fluttering in his belly worse than ever.

 --

  Martin had to admit that pasta in an Italian café was worlds away from pasta cooked on a hotplate in Fitton, and the wine was delicious, despite being cheap. It warmed him inside, and melted away the worst of his nervousness. Arthur looked handsome in the rosy candlelight that flickered in a dingy red glass on their table, as well. It was an odd thought, that, but he couldn’t deny the fact that he fancied him, more than just a bit, when the thought would have seemed absurd not so long ago. Martin brushed his leg against Arthur’s under the table, and at Arthur’s questioning look, mumbled, “It’s dark.”

 Arthur giggled. “It’s like a game, isn’t it, Skip? Like we’re playing spies.” His eyes twinkled. “We have a top secret, er, secret.”

 “It’s more than a game, Arthur. We can’t get caught.”

 “I know. It’s important.” Arthur seemed serious for a moment, before he nudged Martin with his foot.

\--

  The hotel was a hotel in name only. The small room was above a newsagent’s , and the sole window was barred and faced a noisy street. There was one bed.

 “I know you lost the bet, but I don’t mind taking the floor.” Arthur commented, as he set down his suitcase.

 “I mind.” Martin found himself saying. “I mean… just _look_ at the floor. You might get fleas.” He wrinkled his nose. “I mean, well. I wouldn’t mind sharing the bed, that is, if you don’t mind.”

“Really, Skip? Brilliant!” Arthur clasped his hands together, and Martin worriedly wondered for the several hundredth time that day just how he’d dug himself in so deep, so quickly.


	6. Chapter 6

Martin had underestimated the space in the single bed, and he squirmed toward the wall with the window, worried that Arthur might not have enough room. Arthur curled onto his side, and slipped an arm snugly around Martin’s waist.

“Er, all right?” Martin asked, wondering if he would be able to sleep with someone attached to him.

“More than that, Skip.” Arthur replied, with a small squeeze. Martin found himself relaxing into the embrace despite his reservations.

 “We don’t have to fly back until tomorrow night.” Martin stretched his legs. “Maybe we can take a walk first?”

 “Brilliant.” Arthur agreed. “We are lucky, aren’t we.  I mean, we work on the same plane, so we’ll get to have dates all over the world.”

 “We still have to be careful around Douglas, you know.”

“I know.” Arthur pressed an unexpected kiss to the nape of Martin’s neck, making him shiver. “I never thought you’d say yes.”  he mumbled, so softly that Martin almost didn’t understand the words.

 “I wasn’t expecting you to ask.” he answered, honestly. The darkness of the room made him brave enough to ask a bold question. “Arthur… when did you know that you fancied men?”

 “Not men, really. Man. You. When I met you.” He didn’t seem troubled by it. “What about you, Skip?”

 Martin was quiet for a moment. “I must have been about twelve or thirteen. I remember thinking it was horrible to have one more thing that made me different. I didn’t think about it for a long time. I pretended it wasn’t happening.” He let out a long sigh. “Are you sure about this? I mean, if it was just me, it might be a… thing. A phase.”  It was an unpleasant thought, one that had struck him shortly after he’d realized how happy kissing Arthur senseless had made him.

 “I’m really, really, super-sure, don’t worry about that. I mean, I fancied you right off. Then you treated me like I was as good as you, you know, and not just a steward. And then I found out how you’d put yourself through school and taken your tests so many times and-“

 Martin groaned. “You’re listing reasons _not_ to like me, now.”

 “No, no, I’m not. You’re fantastic, you know, really just brilliant. You don’t give up, not ever. You’re tough like I always wanted to be, and now you’re as good as Douglas.”

 Martin was temporarily struck speechless at the compliment.

 “And you’re beautiful.” A hint of shyness crept into his voice. “All pretty eyes and bright hair and freckles in all the right places, and the way that your nose curves, and – and-“

 “I’m not ‘pretty.’”  Martin turned in his arms to face him, half scowling, half blushing.

 “You are.” Arthur cheerfully retorted.

 “Handsome.” He corrected. “If you are intent on paying me false compliments.”

 “You are.” Arthur frowned.

  Martin reached up to kiss him, putting an end to the debate. “I think that you’re handsome, too, you know.” He eyed the dim outline of Arthur’s features. It was odd, he thought, how strongly he resembled Gordon, but without any of the hard edges.  His kindness seemed to transform his features , especially his eyes. “But I’m not about to deflower you in this disgusting hotel room, so we’d best get some shut eye.”

  Arthur chuckled. “That’s a silly word, isn’t it. Besides, I’ve got no flowers.”

 Martin groaned. “That’s not what it means.”

 “Oh, I know. It’s just that I’ve had sex plenty of times, and there were never any flowers involved. Unless you count things like roses on Valentine’s day, and then you really have to, you know, it’s expected-“

 “What?” Martin sat up. “What do you mean, you’ve had plenty-?”

 “It’s just something to do, you know, when you really like each other.”  Arthur propped himself up on his elbow. “Why are you upset?”

 Martin shook his head. “I’m not. It’s just. Well. I haven’t had loads of gratuitous sex, so it’s going to be one more thing I’m not good at.”

 “Well, you’ll be brilliant at it, I’m sure, just like flying. How much have you had?”

  Martin was turning red from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “Twice. Both times a sort of disaster.”

 “Sometimes disasters can be exciting.” Arthur patted his shoulder.

 “Maybe I should say ‘disappointment’, then.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’ll be brilliant.” Arthur pulled him down to the bed, and Martin settled against his chest.

 “Your flat would be a nicer place than this, you’re right. Except for that hot plate. I could get you a microwave, and then I could cook for you.” Arthur ran his hand lightly across Martin’s middle, which was still too bony for his liking.

 “You don’t have to.” Martin quickly replied. “I mean, really, we could get take away or something. No need to, er, trouble yourself.”

 “Oh, I don’t mind at all.” Arthur yawned. “I like cooking for you-“

“Goodnight, Arthur.”  Martin groaned.

“’Night, Skip.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Mr. Finnemore, 
> 
> [](http://s590.beta.photobucket.com/user/madlovescience/media/sorry_zps39c17c1e.jpg.html)
> 
> Sincerely, 
> 
> hazeltea

  Martin piled his purchases on the conveyor belt: two packages of dried spaghetti, a jar of  tomato sauce, and a package of condoms, which he wedged behind the boxes of pasta. He was so busy pretending to count the notes in his wallet that he didn’t notice the shop girl smirk at him as she handed him his bag. He hurried away from the shop, letting out a deep breath that he didn’t realize that he was holding in. Finally, a day off! Tonight was the night that couldn’t go wrong. Everything had to be perfect.

  He hastened his pace as he saw that Arthur’s car was already parked near the house. Martin hurried inside and up his rickety steps.  He flung the attic door open, and barely recognized what he saw. His mattress was fitted with a deep blue satin spread, pooling out onto the floorboards. His desk, formerly a discarded coffee table, had been pulled to the center of the floor and covered with a tablecloth. A large candle in a glass jar, smelling strongly of vanilla cake, was placed in the center. Two plush cushions which looked as though they were meant to match the bedspread stood in for chairs. The richness of the fabric contrasted with the shabbiness of its surroundings to give the small room a bohemian feel, as though someone intended for the room to be shabby yet elegant, had, in fact, insisted upon the shabbiness.

  “Do you like it?” Arthur stood at the far side of the room, grinning widely.

 “It’s… nice. More than nice. Where did it all come from?”                                       

 “Storage.” Arthur gestured. “We’ve got tons of old stuff. Oh, and you haven’t seen the very very best bit yet!” He stepped aside, and Martin was torn between gratitude and dread as he saw the microwave that now perched upon his milk crates.  

 “You shouldn't have-“

 “It’s for our special night! And after, too, I guess, or it’ll only go back in the attic. I mean, the _other_ attic. The one that’s not a brilliant little flat.”

 Martin silenced him with a kiss. “You wonderful man.”

 Arthur fairly shivered at the compliment.  Martin tightened his grip, possessively. He didn’t have to be nervous or careful here, behind locked doors. No one needed to know what they were doing, what they would do…  Sternly, Martin forced himself to pull away. Dinner first. He had brought nearly matching plates upstairs from the kitchen, and laid he them out on the table before boiling the water for the pasta.

 “We had pasta on our very first date.” Arthur beamed. “You know how some couples have a special song, well, we’ve got a special food.”

 “Yes, an inexpensive one that takes one pot to cook. Are you sure that you want something cheap and easy to be the symbol of our relationship?”

 “You think too much.” Arthur laughed.

  _It’s too easy,_ Martin thought, before laughing himself.

 The spaghetti was nothing like what they’d had in Venice, but it was filling, and the candle lent the illusion of warmth to the drafty space.

 “Do you want to switch on the flight simulator?” Arthur asked, as they moved the table back against the wall, and stacked the dirty plates on the end.

 “Do you think we ought to? It doesn’t seem like it’s a very romantic thing…”

“I don’t mind. I want to see you fly. I mean, I’d stand and watch you all day if I could.”

 Martin found himself blushing, and agreeing to turn on the computer. A few moments later, he was settled on the edge of his mattress with Arthur curled around him from behind, muscle memory guiding the pixelated dash before him.

 “I know it’s not real, you know, and I know that it’s really only practice, but sometimes I can _almost_ imagine that I’m flying when I do this. You can’t feel the lift, you know, how you feel the take off? It starts in the base of your spine, and straight to your heart, and …”

 “It’s brilliant.” Arthur supplied.

 “Yes. Brilliant. Like I’m part of G-ERTI. Like her wings are mine.”

 Arthur’s arm tightened around his waist, and began pressing kisses into the crook of his neck. “I can’t do this when you’re _really_ flying, but I’ve always wanted to.”  He smiled to himself as he felt Martin’s breathing quicken. “Love, love, love you.” He whispered, as he continued his game of kissing each pale freckle in turn.

 Martin’s eyes were wide and questioning. He had fully turned in Arthur’s lap now, simulator all but forgotten. _I’m nothing, and he loves me. I’m nobody, and they let me fly her. God._

“Skip?”

“Can we go to bed now?” Martin’s voice was barely a croak.

“Yes. Yes! I mean, brilliant.” Arthur babbled, fumbling with his buttons, and then Martin’s, until they were both in their pants , at which point Martin seemed to gain some form of coherent thought.

“Just a moment.” Martin pulled the bedspread back, and carefully folded it over. “We shouldn’t ruin that, it’s too nice.”

   _It really isn’t_ , Arthur thought, but didn’t see the point in discussing it when he was finally, _finally_ about to hold Martin skin to skin for the first time. He used the spare moment to pull of his pants, and knelt on the edge of the mattress.  

  Martin took a deep breath as he took in the sight of Arthur’s nude body. _Right Right. We’re doing this._ He found himself frozen with nerves. _Dammit, move!_ He ordered himself. _This is Arthur. There’s no reason to be nervous._ In the end, though, Arthur took the initiative, pulling him close and into a deep kiss.  Martin’s instincts took over, and he leaned into it, straddling Arthur’s thigh. Arthur lifted him slightly, and Martin gasped. Arthur was stronger than he’d supposed, and his body was surprisingly appreciative of that fact. Arthur’s fingers slid under the waistband of his pants, and Martin wiggled his hips to help him pull the fabric free.

  “This is usually when something goes wrong.” He mumbled. _Like how I just said that and probably ruined the mood._

 “It won’t.” Arthur panted. He fumbled for the package of condoms, and Martin’s eyes were drawn to Arthur’s erection as the latex pulled over it.  It had been _years_ since he’d last had the real thing, and his mouth was practically watering, aching to be fucked.

 “Arthur, I-“ his voice caught in his throat.

 “It’s okay. Show me.” Arthur smiled at him, dissolving a good deal of the tension.

 “Right.” Martin nodded, and reached for a condom. “If you could just… just lie on your back, and let me get ready to, er.”

 “Shh. Just show me, okay?”

 Martin nodded, and he retrieved the small bottle of lube that he kept tucked beneath his mattress. He knelt over Arthur with his legs spread wide, and pressed a finger into himself, as he’d done hundreds of times before.  This time, however, flesh would penetrate him, not silicone. He pushed a second finger deeper. Arthur drew in a shuddering breath, and Martin could see his pupils dilating as he watched. Lust. He wasn’t used to seeing such a dark expression on Arthur’s sweet features. _God, but he looks like his father. Gordon – Gordon fucking me. Oh, God, no. Don’t think horrible things, or you’ll ruin it like you always-_ Martin let out a yelp as the terrible thought and a brush against his prostate sent a jolt of electricity straight to the head of his cock. _Oh, God, this is a nightmare. A wonderful, embarrassing nightmare and I love him for loving me even though I’m ruining-_

  Slowly, he impaled himself on Arthur’s cock, feeling the stretch and burn, so wonderful as the pain dissipated to a contented feeling of fullness. He risked opening his eyes.  Arthur was gazing at him, reverently; and then, he just barely rolled his hips. Martin yelped, and pressed back into the circular motion. His right hand flailed out, and Arthur caught it, locking their fingers until their knuckles were white.  

 “Martin. Oh, oh… Captain Crieff. Like that, Captain… I’m  yours, Captain!”  Arthur was writing beneath him, struggling not to thrust too deeply, lest he hurt him. The words were Martin’s undoing. He came with a shout, losing his balance and falling against Arthur, who gripped him tightly and pumped into his body several more times before stiffening, and coming with a small whimper.

 For a long while, they stayed like this, Arthur’s fingers tracing circular patterns on Martin’s back. Eventually, they separated, and Arthur kissed his temple before reaching for Martin’s towel to clean them.

 “It’s _never_ been like that.” Martin confessed, curling against Arthur’s chest. Arthur mumbled something, but Martin’s body, pleasantly sated, was pulling him toward sleep.

 It seemed like a short while later when they were awakened by a high pitched beeping.

 “Mmmh?” Martin managed. “Arthur, wake up, I think that’s your phone.”

 Arthur sat up.  “It’s Mum. What time is it?”

 “Half past two. Er, Arthur, did you tell your mum that you were staying someplace overnight?”

 “No, I should have been back an hour ago. It’s okay, I can say-“

 “No! Give me the phone. There is no way that you can lie to Carolyn, I’m sorry… Er, Hello? Um. Yes. It is Martin. No, everything is okay. We’re at the pub.  No, of course he isn’t drinking. No, I only had a pint. Carolyn- right.  No, we just got carried away watching the- he’s in the loo. No, I’ll be sure that he makes it home. What do you mean, tomorrow? _Phoenix?_   Since when did- right. No, no, you’re right, I’ll get him home right away.”

 Martin sighed, handing the phone back to Arthur. “All right, do _not_ tell your mum about the pub we did not go to in detail. We got wrapped up in a pub quiz and watching the telly. Just tell her that you’re tired when you get in, and go right to bed. We’re flying in the morning, anyway.”

 “Brilliant. What were we watching?”

 “Anything, just don’t get to the point in the conversation where you actually give _details_ , all right? Come on, we’ve got to wash up.”

 


End file.
